


Thaw

by francoeurs



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon-typical language, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Jaime POV, Mentions of Violence, Minor Character Death, Post Season 7, Romance, Touch-Starved, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 22:14:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13797429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/francoeurs/pseuds/francoeurs
Summary: He didn’t miss the way Brienne leaned into his touch immediately, even as her eyes widened in surprise. He didn’t miss the way they fluttered shut, her near-white lashes fanning over her flushed cheeks. When he removed his hand, he didn’t miss the quick flash of distress on her face before she remembered to hide it behind a mask of indifference.Jaime didn’t miss any of it.





	Thaw

**Author's Note:**

> This has no real plot. It’s basically just a bunch of fluffy J/B snippets post-season 7. I intentionally didn’t go into detail about the war stuff, and I tried to keep the angst to a minimum because I’m sure season 8 will have pleeenty of that. [screaming internally]
> 
> I started writing this after drinking some wine and randomly thinking about how touch-starved poor Brienne probably is. The tipsy feelings I poured into Microsoft Word that night eventually turned into this fic... after a lot of editing and rewriting, because yikes. Tipsy!Me apparently can’t differentiate between book and show canon. Young Brienne and her thousand freckles kept sneaking back in there. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

  

It started with an innocent touch.

They were standing in Winterfell’s courtyard. Jaime was complaining about the abominable weather, as he did every day, when he noticed Brienne’s pink, cold-chapped cheeks. The rosy hue only made her astonishing eyes stand out more. Jaime faltered momentarily, but then gathered himself and went on with his routine grousing.

As he talked, he unthinkingly raised his hand and cupped her face, brushed his thumb over her cheekbone, felt the slightly dry texture of her skin. It took him a few moments to realise what he was doing. When he did, he dropped his hand at once, interrupting his own chatter with a quick, muttered apology, and that was that.

But he didn’t miss the way Brienne leaned into his touch immediately, even as her eyes widened in surprise. He didn’t miss the way they fluttered shut, her near-white lashes fanning over her flushed cheeks. When he removed his hand, he didn’t miss the quick flash of distress on her face before she remembered to hide it behind a mask of indifference.

Jaime didn’t miss any of it.

 

— • —

 

A violent shiver wracked his body once he was safely inside, away from the snowstorm that had been raging mercilessly for the past three days. His shoulders were bunched high and tight around his neck; his head drawn into his collar like a turtle's into its shell. The same thing was happening with his cock, Jaime was sure of it.

Lannisters were not built for the cold.

The short beard he’d grown was helping somewhat. He probably wouldn’t lose the lower half of his face to frostbite. _Thank the gods for small mercies_ , he thought sardonically.

He brushed snowflakes from his hair as he made his way towards breakfast. He idly wondered how Tyrion was handling the harsh northern winter, but then dismissed the question almost as quickly as it entered his head. His brother had advocated for him when Jaime had arrived at Winterfell, but their relationship remained strained and distant. A pang of nostalgia and longing for his lost family stabbed Jaime, right between the ribs, but he ignored it, straightening his shoulders and spine as he strode into the Great Hall.

Luckily, he’d had a lot of practice ignoring unwelcome feelings (and bleak, foreboding thoughts that tugged at the back of his mind), he reminded himself bitterly. The familiar taste of self-loathing burned at the back of his throat.

Eager for a distraction, he swept his gaze over the Great Hall until he spotted Brienne, sitting alone at a table. His sour mood brightened at the sight of his dearest and only friend in this frozen hellscape.

He ignored the usual scornful looks he received from nameless faces he did not know nor care about; his focus was on Brienne. He tossed his growing hair out of his eyes and pulled off his leather glove with his teeth. The worthless thing was no match for the frigid winter. He flexed his stiff fingers and blew warm air on his hand as he walked.

Brienne registered his presence without quite turning her head. “I got you a bowl of porridge before it was all gone, but it’s cold now,” she said when he stopped beside her. “However, it did hold onto its warmth for far longer than you usually manage.”

Jaime tossed his glove on the table and looked at her in disbelief. “Was that a jape?”

Brienne looked up with a perfectly straight face. “I would never,” she stated flatly before turning her attention back to her own empty bowl. She scraped her spoon across the bottom and rested her chin in her hand.

Jaime narrowed his eyes at the back of her stupidly blonde head. A devious smile curled his lips.

He shifted closer to her and cupped the back of her warm, vulnerable neck in his icy palm.

“GAH!” Brienne yelped loudly. Her knee knocked against the underside of the table, rattling dishes and cutlery

Dozens of heads turned towards her.

“ _Jaime_ ,” she hissed and hunched in her seat, trying and failing to make herself appear smaller.

He laughed under his breath, his shoulders shaking with mirth as he sat down across from her. “Oh, it’s ‘Jaime’ now, is it? It’s about time you dropped the _Ser_.”

“You’re impossible,” Brienne huffed and unceremoniously pushed his bowl of cold, congealed porridge towards him.

He stared at it in distaste and scratched his bearded chin. “That was thoughtful of you. Thank you,” he said, hesitantly taking the spoon she offered him.

Brienne shot him one last lukewarm glare and nodded before turning her face to the window above them, watching the snow falling outside.

With some difficulty, Jaime swirled the spoon through the thick porridge and studied Brienne’s morose expression. “Is everything all right? You’re looking particularly dour this morning.”

“I’m fine.” She gave him a quick glance. “A little tired, maybe,” she added when she saw his dubious expression.

A knot of worry began to form in the pit of his stomach. He pursed his lips. “The complete lack of emotion in your voice is awfully convincing.”

“Hm.” She hummed a low note and shifted her head in her hand.

Fed up with being ignored, Jaime dropped his spoon and laid his hand over hers on the table, stroking her thumb with his own. “Brienne.”

She jerked at his touch.

Her gaze dropped to their hands, her eyes filled with bewilderment and... awe?

Jaime watched her for a beat, troubled by her reaction. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, desperately trying to hold back the imprudent words that were struggling up his throat, but they flew out just as his good sense simultaneously flew out the window.

“When is the last time you’ve been touched?” he asked.

Brienne visibly tensed. She drew in a startled breath and swiftly pulled her hand from under his. “Wha... what sort of question is that?” she sputtered as blood rushed to her face.

“Probably the inappropriate sort.” Jaime grimaced, contrite, but not contrite enough to take the question back. He tapped his fingers against the table, right where her hand had been lying a moment ago. Some of her warmth lingered. “Well?” he pressed.

Brienne scowled, her mouth opening and closing a few times before she was able to respond. “People touch me all the time. I trained with Clegane only yesterday,” she said in a clipped tone.

“I meant touched by someone who cares for you. Affectionate touches. I wasn’t talking about you being manhandled and thrown about by a crabby old hound.”

She scoffed. “I assure you I was not the one being manhandled or thrown anywhere.”

Jaime smiled broadly, unsurprised but still delighted. “Of course you weren’t. My apologies. My head is still a tad frozen, I’m afraid.”

She held his gaze for the space of a heartbeat, then ducked her head as her mouth curved into a subtle, pleased smile.

Jaime leaned across the table on his elbows and tried to catch her eye again. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Perhaps I won’t,” she said in a low voice.

He cocked his head. “Won’t you?”

There was a long silence. Brienne stared at the table with a faraway look in her eyes and a deep line between her pale brows.  

Her shoulder sagged as she gave in to his prodding. “My mother, I suppose?” she said in a tone gone thoughtful. “I know my father cares for me very much, but he’s never been the most affectionate of men.” She paused and pushed her bowl away from her, looking rattled. “And my septa was always as cold as the wind outside, and twice as harsh.”

Jaime frowned as he mulled that over. “And when did your mother...?”

Brienne blinked as if surprised by his question. “When I was very young. Too young to remember her, really.”

The appalling realisation hit Jaime like a blow to the gut.

“Gods, Brienne.” The words spilled out low and unsteady.

She shook her head. A lock of hair fell over her forehead and she brushed it back impatiently. “It’s fine, Ser Jaime,” she said, clearly misunderstanding the cause of his upset. “As I said, I was very young. That wound healed a long time ago.”

Jaime opened his mouth to say—well, he wasn’t quite sure what he was going to say, but he would never find out, because Brienne cut him off before he could get a word out.

“Now, if you'll excuse me, I have many duties to attend to before nightfall, and night falls earlier every day. I’m sure Pod is already waiting for me,” she said as she stood up. “Would you mind taking care of this for me?” She inclined her head towards her empty bowl.

Jaime shook his head, at a loss for words for once.

“Thank you.” She looked at him for a moment longer before giving herself a shake and starting for the doors.

Jaime practically leapt over the table and caught her arm before she got more than two steps away. She was standing on his wrong side, so he had to stretch his left arm awkwardly across his chest. He ran his hand down her forearm and took her hand again, properly this time. He enfolded her long, surprisingly soft fingers in his, bringing them palm to palm.

“Are we still training this evening?” he asked, skimming his thumb over her wrist. He felt her pulse flutter under the delicate skin there.

Brienne’s gaze shifted from their hands to his face. Her lips were parted. “I... yes. Of course.”

Jaime gave her hand a squeeze before dropping it. “Good. I look forward to getting knocked arse-backwards into the snow,” he said with a cheeky grin.

That startled a short bark of a laugh out of Brienne. The unexpected sound cut off abruptly as she cleared her throat, throwing uneasy glances around the Great Hall. She took a deep breath and, after one last look at Jaime, hurried away with long strides, her heavy boots clomping on the stone floor.

He watched her retreating back, his smile slowly melting into a thoughtful frown. 

He caught that scruffy, orange wildling eyeing Brienne hungrily as she passed by him, and something ugly and raw coiled in Jaime’s chest.

 

— • —

 

He shook her shoulder. “Brienne.”

She grunted and wrapped her furs tighter around herself.

Jaime shook her harder. “ _Brienne_ ,” he whispered urgently, forcing her name out past his chattering teeth. The cold air stung his nose and throat and settled uncomfortably in his lungs. “Move over a little, will you?” He poked her back. Once, twice, thrice.

The third poke startled her awake. She scowled at him over her shoulder, blinking sleep out of her eyes. “Whut?”

“I was freezing my balls off over there. Let me sleep with you.”

Her bewildered frown smoothed out. She blinked rapidly, her anxiety almost palpable.

“Oh,” she said, before eloquently adding, “um.”

Jaime suppressed a growl of frustration. He rubbed his right arm vigorously with his remaining hand to coax some warmth back into it. “Please. I promise you every soldier in this camp is cuddled up against whoever is closest to them right now.” He quickly ran his gaze over her. “You’re cold too, I can tell.”

As if on cue, a powerful shiver shook her body. Her lips pressed into a thin line and she raised her chin a fraction higher, clearly annoyed, although Jaime couldn’t tell if her irritation was directed at him or her own traitorous body. Both, perhaps.

“I brought my furs with me,” Jaime added, hoping to entice her.

Brienne’s eyes squinted into slits, but then she sighed in defeat and dropped her head back down. She reached blindly behind her and lifted her blanket and furs. “Fine. Hurry up.”

He grinned at her even though she couldn’t see it. “My thanks, Lady Brienne,” he practically purred as he dropped his sorry excuse for a pillow next to hers and slipped in beside her.

“Shut up,” she muttered, the words muffled by the furs in which she’d just buried her nose. She curled up into a tighter ball.

Jaime spread his own furs over hers, making sure they covered Brienne as well. He made himself as comfortable as he could and gave the back of her dishevelled head a fond look, amused by her sleepy surliness.

He wiggled a bit closer to her and the warmth he craved, then closed his eyes.

 _Her hair smells like snow and wood_ _smoke_ was his last coherent thought before sleep finally claimed him.

 

.

.

.

 

Jaime was woken up by a hard kick to his shin.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hissed through clenched teeth. He reached down to rub his abused leg and almost took an elbow to the face. He blocked Brienne’s arm just before it could connect with his nose.

A groan escaped Brienne. She kicked her legs again and clawed at the furs wrapped around her, her breathing shallow and uneven.

Jaime leaned over her to get a good look at her face. Her brow was furrowed, her lips parted. Beads of sweat glistened on her upper lip in the dim light from the fire that still burned outside the tent.

“T’shadow,” she mumbled. Her tongue clicked as she opened and closed her mouth a few times, like a fish out of water. “G— _No_. Jaime. Fail’d. Failed again.”

His brows rose in surprise. He put his hand on her arm. “Brienne.”

Her eyes sprung open. She sat up abruptly, one arm flailing at nothing, and Jaime narrowly avoided getting hit.

Her gaze swept across the tent. “Jaime?” she called.

The panic and naked fear in her voice tore at his heart.

“I’m here,” he said quietly. He hesitated, then slid his hand under her cloak and stroked her back, making sure his touch was firm so that she could feel it through the leather. “You were having a nightmare. It’s over now.”

Her eyes swung to him. She blinked, finally seeing him.

Jaime grasped her arm and pulled her back down with him. She did not resist, but her eyes still darted around the darkness anxiously, searching for a threat that wasn’t there.

"Roll onto your side," Jaime whispered. He gave her shoulder a soft push, encouraging her to roll until she had her back turned to him once more. After a moment's pause, he pressed his chest against her back and wrapped his arm around her waist. He hesitatingly rested his stump on her belly, wishing he’d made her move to his other side so he could have put his hand there instead.

He held his breath. When she didn’t recoil from his maimed arm, he slipped it under her leather jack and undershirt. He awkwardly used his forearm to rub her stomach in what he hoped was a soothing manner, the way his mother used to do when he and Cers—when he and his sister were very young.

Jaime nuzzled his chilled nose into the back of Brienne’s neck. She made a small noise in her throat and shivered, leaning back against him slightly. He pulled her in tighter against his chest and tucked his knees behind hers.

Some time passed, and she gradually relaxed in his arms. Her breathing slowed and deepened as her body finally went slack. She snuffled in her sleep and muttered something which he couldn't catch.

When he was sure she was dead to the world, Jaime dropped the lightest kiss on her hair and reluctantly— _carefully_ —disentangled himself from her. He rolled onto his back, and stared at the top of the tent with unseeing eyes, wondering if Brienne would remember any of this in the morning.

With his eyes shut, he listened to the wind outside, imagining the snowflakes swirling in it, and willed sleep to return.

 

— • —

 

Podrick was killed right in front of her, and that night, Jaime saw Brienne weep for the first time.

He found her hunched over against a tree, her body wracked with heaving sobs that she tried and failed to stifle with her hand. A thin, keening, heartrending cry slipped past her lips as she gulped in air.

Jaime flinched. He never wanted to hear that sound again.

His footsteps crunching in the snow alerted her of his presence. She barely had time to look up before he caught her shoulder and pulled her roughly against him. Their armour clashed, the sharp sound oddly muffled by the snowy forest that surrounded them on all sides.

Brienne sucked in a shaky breath and froze. Several beats of silence ticked by before she let out a small sound and sagged against him. She clung to him, her head falling to the spot between his neck and cloak, hiding her swollen, tear-streaked face from him. Her shoulders trembled then shook as she tightened her arms around his back, her palms flat between his shoulder blades, pulling him to her.

She scarcely made a sound as she cried and grieved, but Jaime felt her pain burrow its way under his skin, heading straight for his heart.

He cupped the back of her head, his other arm going around her waist. “I’m sorry” was all he had to offer.

_Useless._

How long they stood there, he didn't know, but bit by bit, her quiet sobs subsided until she was merely sniffling and gasping softly. After a few heartbeats, Brienne lowered her arms and stepped back from him. She met his eyes briefly, then averted her gaze without a word, wiping her eyes roughly with the back of her gloved hand.

Strands of blonde hair, stiff with frost, hung like icicles around her blotchy face. Jaime pulled his glove off with his teeth, and cupped her cheek. Some of her tears were still frozen on her skin; he could feel them melt under his palm.

“Are you ready to go back to the camp?” he asked gently.

Her eyes, reddened but still as blue as the base of a flame, lifted back to his. Jaime easily lost himself in them, instinctively seeking warmth for his chilled bones.

Brienne shook her head. “Not quite yet,” she said with a catch in her voice. She paused, then added, “you don’t need to stay with me.”

Jaime didn't dignify that with an answer. He crouched at the base of the tree, hesitated, then sat down, making sure his fur cloak was between his arse and the snow. He hid his wince and took Brienne’s hand, tugging her down to sit beside him.

He pulled her head to his shoulder, stroked her hair, and waited.

 

— • —

 

The pain woke him up. He cursed quietly to himself, wishing he could go back to being unconscious.

He was in a tent, and he could feel that he was lying on a bedroll. His mouth tasted like bile and rusty iron. He swallowed past the dryness in his throat and racked his brain, struggling to think through his splitting headache.

He remembered fighting the dead. He remembered frozen fog and the screams of dying men. He remembered the sound of steel hitting steel and dark red blood in the snow, and then... nothing.

A small, startled cry reached his ears, followed by a very familiar and very welcome voice. “You’re awake!”

“Hm?” Jaime turned his head and screwed his eyes shut with a grunt when sharp pain shot through his skull and down into his neck. He took a few deep, steadying breaths and opened his eyes again. He blinked until the blur of sleep was gone.

Brienne was standing in one corner of the tent, out of armour but with Oathkeeper still at her hip, the fierce lion head gleaming in the dim light of a lantern. She heaved a loud sigh of relief and looked at Jaime with large, unblinking eyes.

A bandage covered one of her cheeks and wrapped around her head and jaw.

Jaime’s brow knitted. “You’re hurt,” he pointed out unnecessarily.

Brienne waved her hand in a dismissive gesture, then put it on a small table—right next to the lantern—and leaned her weight on it. “Merely a scratch. How are you feeling? Are you thirsty?” she asked, a little out of breath.

 _What was she doing before I woke up?_ Jaime wondered hazily.

“Yes,” he rasped, then clarified, “thirsty.”

She turned to the table and poured water into a small cup, then walked to him and knelt down. Jaime lifted himself to his elbows with a wince. Brienne brought the cup to his lips and he sipped the water gratefully, letting it soothe his sore throat.

“What happened?” he asked when he’d had enough.

“You suffered a nasty blow to the head. You’ve been unconscious for over a day,” she explained. Her bottom lip was split on one side and a trifle swollen. Brienne exhaled long and slow and lowered the cup to her lap, cradling it with both hands. “Tormund found you face down in the snow after the battle.”

Jaime groaned and rolled gracelessly onto his side to face her. “I’m s’prised he didn’t leave me there. There’s no love lost between us,” he said, his words slightly slurred.

Unutterable weariness crossed her face. She sighed. “Well, he did not.”

Jaime gave a hollow laugh. “Trying to impress you, no doubt.”

Brienne shot him a warning look. That’s when he noticed how glassy her eyes were, brimming with unshed tears. The delicate skin around them looked red and raw, as did the whites of her eyes.

Jaime squinted at her, his mind too groggy and muddled to make sense of anything. He huffed out a breath at his own sluggishness. His head felt like it was filled with heavy sand. _Sand full of needle and shards of broken glass_ , he thought miserably.

Brienne’s chin quivered, but she pressed her lips together to still it. She scrambled to her feet, putting some distance between her and Jaime.

Jaime blinked.

“I didn’t think you would wake up,” she confessed. Desperation and hurt coloured her voice. “Samwell Tarly said—” she stopped herself short, her lips trembling. She walked to the table and set the cup on it, but she didn’t let go of it. “There was so much blood, Jaime,” she continued with her back to him.

Jaime reached up and felt a bandage wrapped around his head... and the dried blood that caked his hair around it.

“I’m fine,” he said, wincing as he probed the wound on the side of his head. It throbbed harder, and he bit back a whimper. Still a too proud lion, cracked skull or not. _Some things cannot be unlearned._ “I’ve survived worse.”

Brienne turned to face him and gripped Oathkeeper's hilt, her eyes still shining with held-back tears. Her throat worked convulsively.

“I love you,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

That woke him right up.

Jaime dropped his hand, his jaw slack as her words sank in.

He had imagined many variations of this moment over the past few months, but he never saw this coming. He suddenly felt lightheaded and unsteady, and he didn’t think he could put all of the blame on his head injury.

He rose to his elbows again, ignoring the small explosion of pain between his ears. “Say it again,” he said, forcing the words out past the lump in his throat.

Brienne frowned. “I love you,” she repeated sullenly. Her tone was vaguely accusatory.

His shock quickly turned to elation. Jaime bit the inside of his lip and patted the bedroll. “Come here.”

A flash of alarm crossed her face. “What?” she asked, her voice higher than he'd ever heard it.

“I can’t go to you, so you’ll have to come to me.” He patted the bedroll again.

She shifted on her feet and threw a nervous glance at the tent flap, as if she were considering fleeing.

Jaime half-heartedly rolled his eyes. “I won’t bite, Brienne.”

Her gait was stiff as she walked over to him (and a tad clumsy, he noted). She sat next to his arm, her hands wringing on her lap

Jaime reached up and cupped her jaw with every intention of pulling her down for a kiss, but he froze when he felt her skin under his palm.

“Gods, you’re burning up,” he hissed. A ridiculous but horrifying thought occurred to him. “Is this what prompted your love confession?” he asked, only half joking. He waved his stump weakly between them. “Are you seeing me with a bushy red beard right now?”

Brienne groaned and slumped forwards. Their heads almost knocked together. “Of course not. Stop teasing.”

He tipped her chin up and frowned, his expression serious again. “Are you going to be all right?”

“M’fine, Ser. I was told I should expect a fever.”

Jaime lifted his furs. “Stop with the _Ser_ nonsense and come here.”

Brienne awkwardly slipped the heavy sword belt off her hips and laid it on the floor, close to his own sword.

She crawled under the furs and slumped against Jaime, her breathing somewhat laboured. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and lay back down, bringing her with him, keeping her close.

He examined her face in the faint glow of the lantern. Her bandage looked fresh enough, but traces of blood already stained the fabric.

An uneasy sense of dread crept over him. “This is not a scratch,” he stated rather than asked. He brushed a finger under her eye. “How bad is it?”

Her lips thinned. “It’s a bite. Some rabid wight took me by surprise and had me flat on my back before I even saw its face.” She gingerly touched the bandage. Her face twisted as if she'd tasted something sour. “I don’t know how bad it is. I haven’t looked at it yet.” Warm air puffed against Jaime’s cheek. “I didn’t think it mattered much.”

“I suppose it doesn’t.” He leaned his temple against hers. Her skin was hot and damp despite the biting cold of the night. “Just as long as it heals.”

“Tarly did not seem too worried.”

“Good.” Jaime curled his hand into a fist. “Is it dead? The wight?”

She pulled back and met his gaze evenly. “Of course it is,” she said in a tone of mild indignation.

“Good,” Jaime said again. He forced his hand to relax and ran his thumb along her jawline, her chin, her bottom lip. “Have you ever been kissed?”

Brienne jerked at the abrupt change of subject. She gaped at him and suddenly looked impossibly young. After a long silence, she shook her head.

“May I?” he asked.

Her eyes darted away from his. “I’m... I’m sweaty,” she protested weakly.

“And I’ve been unconscious for a whole day. I’m sure my breath is absolutely foul.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “When have things ever been pretty or ideal for us?”

Brienne kept him in suspense for what seemed like an eternity before, _finally_ , her eyes drifted shut and she leaned forwards the slightest bit.

Jaime didn’t miss his chance. His hand wrapped around the back of her neck, tugging her closer until their lips met in a gentle caress.

Her lips were dry and chapped, but so were his. He kneaded the nape of her neck, relishing the warm press of her mouth against his cool one. After a moment's hesitation, Brienne’s lips started moving against his. Her kisses were innocent and inexperienced, and Jaime couldn’t get enough of them.

As they kissed, she raised a hand to his face. Her fingers moved with light, hesitant touches over his brow, his eyelids, the sharp bridge of his nose. Jaime’s cock gave an interested twitch when her short nails scratched gently through his beard, her rigid body softening against his.

He reluctantly broke the kiss before he gave into the urge to pin her to the bedroll... or to ask her to pin _him_ down.

 _She’s ill and hurt, and my head feels like a wineskin about to burst_ , he reminded himself. He fought the absurd urge to pout.

Brienne licked her lips, looking half-dazed. “That was pleasant.”

Her voice came out hoarse and raspy, and it did wonderful, horrible things to Jaime. He shifted his hips and laughed breathlessly. “Just wait until we’re both healthier and cleaner and I give you a real kiss,” he said, his voice silky and full of promise.

Her fevered skin flushed darker under his intent gaze.

There was a beat of silence. Two. “If I say I love you,” he said, his voice catching slightly on those three words. He gave her a weak but playful smile. “Will you vow to let me sleep next to you every night, without complaining every time?”

Her nervous and hopeful expression made something inside him crack. “I... might.”

“I love you.” The words came out surprisingly easily this time. Jaime felt light, airy, as though some great weight had been lifted from his chest and he could breathe freely for the first time in years. He brushed back the blonde strands of hair that clung to her damp forehead. “My heart is yours. Whether you decide to take it or not, it'll always be yours.”

Brienne’s eyes widened a fraction. Jaime saw happiness there, but he also glimpsed a flicker of doubt.

"You don’t fully believe me," he stated. He wasn’t offended—he knew her too well for that. “I suppose I'll just have to tell you every day until it gets through that thick skull of yours."

She punched his chest, shaking her head with a faint but sweet smile, as subtle as her smiles always were.

At that moment, a low rumble of male voices came from outside the tent. Jaime’s eyes flicked to the tent flap, but no one appeared. The voices eventually faded until all he could hear was the beating of his own heart and Brienne’s quickened breathing mingling with his own.

Hearing the soldiers brought him back to their harsh reality like a splash of ice cold water to his face.

“We should get some rest,” he said, reluctant to end the moment. He tried to arrange the furs around them in a comfortable way, and then placed a kiss near her hairline, eyes half-closed. “The war’s not over. First we heal, then we keep on fighting.”

Brienne nodded, looking both flustered and determined. “We keep on fighting,” she repeated fiercely, and Jaime’s heart lurched.

She deserved so much better than him, he thought as he drifted towards sleep, but he was still just selfish enough to pretend he didn’t know that.

 

— • —

 

When he made her come for the first time, he saw her weep for the second time.

Not exactly the reaction he'd been aiming for.

Brienne covered her face with her hands, her broad shoulders shaking with silent, uncontrollable sobs. Jaime scrambled to his knees in alarm.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked from his position between her legs. They were in the middle of a war—their bodies were always damaged and hurting in one way or another. Perhaps he’d been a little too enthusiastic while trying to pleasure her?

She’d certainly _seemed_ to like it. At one point, he’d been convinced she’d crush his head with her powerful thighs, and he’d happily resigned himself to his fate. There were much worse ways to die, after all.

He gave her knee a squeeze. “What’s wrong?”

She stopped sobbing and gasped for air, but her body did not stop trembling. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice muffled by her hands.

“You don’t know if I hurt you, or you don’t know what’s wrong?”

She took her hands away from her face. “I don’t know what’s wrong!” she cried.

Jaime wiped his mouth and beard with his forearm, keeping his eyes on her face and waiting for her to elaborate. His thumb traced circles on her hip.

Brienne licked her lips and stared at the ceiling. “I just... I’m feeling so much. I’m not used to—” She cut herself off abruptly. Suddenly self-conscious, she reached for the blanket and pulled it over herself, leaving only her head and legs uncovered. She blew out a frustrated breath and raked a hand through her hair. “This is bloody ridiculous,” she all but snapped.

Jaime joined her under the blanket. They got to have a comfortable rest between four walls for the first time in _months_ , and there was a fire burning in the fireplace, but it couldn’t quite banish that wretched, persistent chill in the air.

He crawled his way up her body until they were face to face. He cleared his throat, unsure of how to proceed. He’d never been in this situation before. He’d only ever known one woman, and she and Brienne could not have been more different if they'd tried.

He dropped his forehead against Brienne’s. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked as delicately as he could.

“ _No_ ,” she answered in a tone that suggested she would rather face down that damned bear again.

His breath sighed over her scarred cheek, still red and tender. He pressed soft kisses around it. “Are you sure? We don’t have to fuck if you don’t want to.”

She flushed at his crudeness, but her eyes darkened with something that was _not_ disapproval.

“I do want to.” She paused. “I’d rather not die a maid.”

He wiped the drying tears from her face with his thumb. “I’d rather you did not die at all.”

She huffed a quiet laugh through her nose. “I’ll try my best.” Tentatively, she placed her hands on his chest and ran her fingers through his sparse chest hair. “Do _you_ still want...?”

Jaime lifted himself up a little and stared openly at her body. “Oh, I want. I’ve wanted for a long time.” His hand smoothed down over her ribs, her belly. He felt the lean, firm muscles jump underneath his light touch.

Brienne squirmed under his gaze. He’d seen her topless a couple of times already, but she was still bashful, even after he’d just had his face buried in her cunt. Incredible.

“Good,” she said. “Sit up.”

He smiled lazily and leaned down, rocking his hips against her. “I always knew you’d be domineering in bed, maid or not,” he murmured against her lips.

Brienne blinked a few times, contemplating the new information. Her chin tipped up just a bit higher and she took a deep breath as if gathering courage.

“I said sit up,” she said, and her low command did delightful things to his cock. She squeezed her knees into his sides as if he were a horse and gave his chest a light push. “We don’t have all day.”

He was impressed—her voice barely shook.

Jaime laughed and planted a smacking kiss on her lips. “Yes, my lady.”

When he’d done as he’d been told, Brienne rose on her knees and straddled him in one swift move. Her eyes searched his face. For what, he wondered?  Whatever it was, she seemed to find it and be satisfied with it, because her guarded expression cleared and she smiled, a small thing that held more genuine affection and tenderness than Jaime had been shown in an awfully long time.

He dropped his gaze, overwhelmed by the flood of mixed emotions rushing through his veins.

Brienne let out a soft grunt as she sank down onto him.

Jaime answered with a groan of his own and held onto her, one arm around her back and his hand gripping her waist, his fingers digging into the flesh as he struggled to stay still. He’d touched and tasted her before, but to really _feel_ her, hot and wet and tight and so, so soft—

She wound her arms around his neck and pressed her chest to his, little tremors running through her body. Her fingers twisted in his hair and Jaime held her tighter, closer. Always closer. He buried his face in her neck and breathed her in.

Brienne gave her hips an experimental roll, and he grasped them firmly, showing her how to move, what felt good. She panted in his ear and dug her fingers into his back as he licked and nipped at her neck and the curve of her shoulder. Jaime tilted his head up and pressed a kiss to the underside of her jaw, but she pulled him into a real kiss instead, moaning and gasping into his mouth. He tasted tears, but whether they were his or hers, Jaime couldn't say.

They could die later that day, or the day after, or when they were both old and grey and wrinkled. She could die suddenly and leave him all alone, and he could do the same to her.

But right now, they had this, and it was good.

 

— • —

 

Brienne leaned her head back against the headboard. “We survived,” she said. Again. Awe filled her voice, giving it a dreamy timbre.

Jaime made a small sound of acknowledgment and shifted his head in her lap, hoping she’d get the hint and start petting his hair again.

She did.

“What happens now?” she asked.

Jaime hummed thoughtfully. “I don’t know, but whatever you decide, you can expect me to trail after you like the besotted fool I am,” he said. He pushed his bottom lip upwards and made a shrugging gesture with his hand. “Or like a pitiful stray, depending on how you look at it and how charitable you feel.”

“I can?” she asked, ignoring his last sentence.

“Yes.” He turned his head and nuzzled her belly over her shirt— _his_ shirt. He was sharing a bed with a dirty thief. “Unless you'd rather I didn't?”

“You... can do whatever you want,” she said, a little breathless.

His lips curved into a smug smile.

Brienne sighed. “I think I’d like to go back to Tarth. I haven’t seen my father in too long. He won’t live forever, and I’m his only heir...” Her voice trailed off into a heavy silence.

“Do you plan to marry?” Jaime asked evenly

“I’ll have to. Eventually. I cannot avoid it forever,” she muttered, rubbing a hand across her face. “I’m sure my father will start looking for potential suitors a soon as I send word of my return.”

“I should ask for your hand before we get there, then.”

Brienne tried to give him a stern look, but she couldn't hide the vulnerability in her eyes. “Jaime.”

“I doubt your father will be very impressed with the crippled, destitute Kingslayer you’ll bring home with you, but we both know how stubborn you are. I’m sure you’ll get your way in the end.” He said blithely, not quite feeling the confidence he tried to convey.

Brienne swallowed hard. “And what makes you think I would say yes?” She tried to keep her tone light, but there was a tremor in her voice.

“Well...” Jaime squinted and sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, pretending to think about it. “You’d be sure I would never ask you to give up your _remarkably_ fine sword and armour.”

Her lips twitched as she tried to fight off a smile. “As if you could.”

“I have nice teeth?” he offered.

“Hm.”

Jaime beamed. “And you _like_ me.” His smile turned sly. “And my co—”

“I said I lo—I admitted my love for you,” she interrupted him before he could entertain himself further. Red blotches stained neck and face. “I never said I like you.”

Jaime groaned and put his stump to his heart. “You wound me.”

Brienne huffed. She raised a hand to her maimed cheek, then dropped it again. She looked down at Jaime with a blend of hope and confusion.

“You really would ask me to marry you?” she asked softly, as if surprised the thought had even crossed his mind. Her brows knitted together in puzzlement.

That sobered him up. He regarded her solemnly. “Would you say yes?”

The furrow in her brow grew deeper. “You know I would.”

“Then I will ask you to marry me,” Jaime swore. He removed her hand from his hair and placed it on his chest, lacing their fingers together. “But not tonight. Not in this dusty inn in the middle of nowhere.” He jerked his head to the right with a grimace. “I'm quite certain I saw a rat’s tail disappear behind that armoire earlier.”

Brienne’s chin trembled. She lifted her free hand and caressed his bearded cheek with the back of her fingers. He leaned into her touch, barely resisting the urge to rub his head against her like a cat.

Brienne gifted him with a small, tremulous smile, a knowing gleam in her eye.

Jaime stilled, absurdly feeling like a child who had been caught in a lie—except he’d only been lying to himself.

Perhaps Brienne hadn’t been the only one starving for affection.

Perhaps those early touches had been for his benefit as well.

“It’s raining,” Brienne said softly, pulling him back to the present.

He turned his head to the window, watching raindrops slide down the glass. Happiness bloomed in his chest. Rain. Such a simple thing that he’d taken for granted for most of his life, hated even, until he thought he would never see it again. He looked back at Brienne with a quiet smile.

Her answering smile was sweet and shy and a bit crooked, and it could have made fucking flowers grow.

Jaime closed his eyes, lulled by Brienne’s quiet breathing and the patter of the rain on the window. Gods, he hadn't realised how much he'd missed that sound.

He wondered if Brienne would ever agree to fuck him outside while rain poured over them. He imagined kissing her and tasting the raindrops on her lips and her small, pink-tipped breasts.

He thought of her Sapphire Isle, and the things they could do there, away from tiring politics and austere northerners.

Jaime rubbed one of her bare, wonderfully long legs and lifted her shirt to place a chaste kiss on her hip. “Describe Tarth to me,” he requested in a sleep-laden voice.

Brienne agreed wordlessly, lying down on her back beside him. He immediately curled around her and tangled their legs together. She rested her temple against his and started talking.

He soaked up every word until their breathing slowed and they sank into a peaceful slumber, skin to skin, dream to dream. 

For the first time in longer than he’d care to admit, Jaime fell asleep without feeling cold.

 

**The End**

 


End file.
